@akirathedon Akira (or Akira) I can't go through 27 minutes right now. But you are so sharp, your concept is beautiful and... more so... very smart. That's the tweet
Well, learning who you are (from Lino-posters onward...)... would be nice if you find some inspiration...
"Just pressed a button"
He learned guitar on soldier nights,
Six strings under those army lights,
C–Am–F–and old “bang-on” G,
Soft enough to set him free.
No fog on stage, no fame, no golden gate,
Just lonely hours and learning late,
Old songs bleeding through the faded-coloured wall,
Four chords trying to say it all.
He chased the poets without their names,
The Liverpool ghosts, the guy around the watchtower telling faith,
No permission, no fancy degree,
Just salt and smoke and memory.
Then he came down to the coast,
Found the place he loved the most,
Two hundred yards of Adriatic sand,
With a cheap “VEGAS” acoustic guitar in those sunburned hands.
Towels drying on the millennial stones,
Girls with laughter and boys with bones,
Wine from strangers, firelight reading “RED”,
Songs remembered, half-misread.
C–Am–F–and old “O”-G,
That was soul, apparently.
Simple chords beside the sea,
Simple hearts in harmony.
Forty years plus change, all things pass,
The fire is ash, the beach is like crab mass,
Faces gone and voices thin,
Wind where songs had once walked in.
Now every genius owns a phone,
Films a cat, a fight, a moan,
Points at chaos, presses send,
Calls it culture in the end.
No frame, no cut, no second thought,
No world imagined, built, or caught,
No nights with eyes burned blue by screens,
No asking what the picture means.
Build a character, a sound, a name,
A city, scene, a moving frame,
Direct the machine until it finally sings,
Suddenly that “is not a real thing”…
Not art, they say. No soul. Not real.
Not hand on string, not blood on steel.
Unless the machine was old and brown,
With Moog dust raining softly down.
Drum machines? Those got a pass.
Synths and samplers? Sacred class.
Loops and presets? Let them ride.
Ghost producers? Step inside.
But say AI and candles burn,
Priests of taste begin to turn,
Same old fear, new holy war,
Guarding someone else’s door.
He says nothing. Lets it play.
No courtroom speech (“…Your honour, can I approach?”).
No debt to pay.
The old guitar still knows the key:
C–Am–F–and that old G.
And if the world can crown a man
For filming trouble with just one hand,
Then do not tell the one who dreams
He only “asked it of machines”…
He pressed a button? Sure, why not.
After forty years of everything he got:
Army nights and coastal air,
Failed tools, lost time, thin hair,
Photoshop ghosts and Director bones,
Flash-era ruins, broken phones,
Maya laughing from that top shelf,
Still too pretty for itself.
Pressed one button? Let them smear.
Let them judge and laugh from that high chair.
Let them call the future fake
While stealing every shot they take.
C–Am–F–and old OG,
Gone with the wind? Maybe.
But the wind still sure carries me,
Through this strange machinery.
So here’s the song, the sea, the scar,
The young man and the old guitar,
The AI face, the human hand,
The fire still under all that sand.
And when they ask, with perfect pride,
“Who the hell made this slop tonight?”
I smile once, let the record run:
Sead AI-C-21 …
Just pressed a button.
Akira, it's kinda your fault I started to believe in June of 2024 we all creative somehow. I think you should post Hank's "Bluebird". Either way, thank you for sharing your work.
#CharlesBukowski #Bukowski #HankBukowski #AkiraTheDon#Bluebird #BluebirdInMyHeart #SpokenWord #Meaningwave #Poetry #PoetryCommunity #AICreator21000 #AI_CREATOR_21000 #SEAD21000 #AI_C_21
Just pressed a button (JUST PRESSED BUTTON...🙄)
He learned guitar on soldier nights,
Six strings under those army lights,
C–Am–F–and old “bang-on” G,
Soft enough to set him free.
No fog on stage, no fame, no golden gate,
Just lonely hours and learning late,
Old songs bleeding through the faded-coloured wall,
Four chords trying to say it all.
He chased the poets without their names,
The Liverpool ghosts, man telling faith,
No permission, no fancy degree,
Just salt and smoke and memory.
Then he came down to the coast,
Found the place he loved the most,
Two hundred yards of Adriatic sand,
With a cheap “VEGAS” acoustic guitar in those sunburned hands.
Towels drying on the millennial stones,
Girls with laughter and boys with bones,
Wine from strangers, firelight reading “RED”,
Songs remembered, half-misread.
C–Am–F–and old “O”-G,
That was soul, apparently.
Simple chords beside the sea,
Simple hearts in harmony.
Forty years plus change, all things pass,
The fire is ash, the beach is like crab mass,
Faces gone and voices thin,
Wind where songs had once walked in.
Now every genius owns a phone,
Films a cat, a fight, a moan,
Points at chaos, presses send,
Calls it culture in the end.
No frame, no cut, no second thought,
No world imagined, built, or caught,
No nights with eyes burned blue by screens,
No asking what the picture means.
Build a character, a sound, a name,
A city, scene, a moving frame,
Direct the machine until it finally sings,
Suddenly that “is not a real thing”…
Not art, they say. No soul. Not real.
Not hand on string, not blood on steel.
Unless the machine was old and brown,
With Moog dust raining softly down.
Drum machines? Those got a pass.
Synths and samplers? Sacred class.
Loops and presets? Let them ride.
Ghost producers? Step inside.
But say AI and candles burn,
Priests of taste begin to turn,
Same old fear, new holy war,
Guarding someone else’s door.
He says nothing. Lets it play.
No courtroom speech (“…Your honour, can I approach?”).
No debt to pay.
The old guitar still knows the key:
C–Am–F–and that old G.
And if the world can crown a man
For filming trouble with just one hand,
Then do not tell the one who dreams
He only “asked it of machines”…
He pressed a button? Sure, why not.
After forty years of everything he got:
Army nights and coastal air,
Failed tools, lost time, thin hair,
Photoshop ghosts and Director bones,
Flash-era ruins, broken phones,
Maya laughing from that top shelf,
Still too pretty for itself.
Pressed one button? Let them smear.
Let them judge and laugh from that high chair.
Let them call the future fake
While stealing every shot they take.
C–Am–F–and old OG,
Gone with the wind? Maybe.
But the wind still sure carries me,
Through this strange machinery.
So here’s the song, the sea, the scar,
The young man and the old guitar,
The AI face, the human hand,
The fire still under all that sand.
And when they ask, with perfect pride,
“Who the hell made this slop tonight?”
I smile once, let the record run:
Sead AI-C-21 …
Just pressed a button."